Walking on Glass
by an endless summer
Summary: You've realized what you want, after all, and you plan on getting it. The idea of warm hands, skin, and tongues has nudged its way back into your foggy brain, and you want it all. Slash.


**Disclaimer:** S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. "Epic" by Faith No More inspired the title.

**A/N: **This fic contains slash (nothing too graphic) and language.

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He's staring at you again. You never quite understand why he does it, but you never bother to make him stop. You _could_ make him stop, if you really wanted, but you don't think you do. You think that maybe you like it - like being watched the way he watches you. It doesn't make any sense, but that's what you think.

It's creepy, of course, but not for the obvious reason. Not because you're a guy and he's a guy and that's not how it's meant to be. Guys aren't supposed to watch each other like that, but that's not why it's creepy. It's creepy because of _how_ he looks at you: his eyes narrow and he scowls deeply and you're sure you've never felt a more intense gaze in your life.

You think you might even like it.

At first it bothered you. You didn't understand why he would look at you like that. You didn't understand why he would look at any guy like that. A few times you actually considered confronting him - asking him what the fuck was going on - but you never did it. You're not even sure why, because you'd sure like to know what was going through his head then.

You refuse to think you never said anything because you knew how he'd take the confrontation. He'd be angry, he'd let his temper take over, and he'd stop staring. You don't want him to stop staring, but that isn't why you don't say anything.

It was then - realizing you wanted him to keep looking at you the way he does - that it stopped bothering you so much. Not completely, because it was still strange, but a little. Enough for you to get used to it and start wondering - wondering about things you shouldn't be wondering about. After a while, you even got used to that.

Sometimes, when you can feel his gaze on you, you look at him and you wait. You sit silently on the couch or the porch or the hood of his car and wait for him to finish his slow trawl up your body. Warmth spreads through you, and you feel damn near naked as he looks over every inch of your body. But then he gets to your face, your gazes lock, and all you do is stare back. You don't say anything - neither of you do - but you stare and you suddenly don't feel so naked.

You still feel warm, though.

It's becoming a problem, the warmth. It's happens even when you're not being watched. You'll find yourself at work, pumping gas or working on a car or selling some cute girl a Coke, and he'll walk in. He won't look at you, he won't let his gaze run over your body, and he sure as hell won't stare at you with that intense look in his eyes.

But you still feel warm. All you have to do is look at him and you feel warm. You feel good. You feel like you might die if he _doesn't_ look at you. But even that feels good. Even feeling sick when he's not looking at you feels warm and right.

None of it is right, though. Because he's a guy, and you're a guy, and he stares at you all creepy like, making you warm and unsure and too damn hot. None of it's right, but that doesn't stop you from letting it happen. You could stop him, after all, if you really wanted.

But you're pretty sure you don't. Because who cares about how creepy it is when it feels as good as it does? There are times when you feel his gaze on your back without having realized he was even in the same room. You'd never say anything to anyone, but you like those times best.

Like when you're leaning over your car, looking in at the engine, and wishing he was there to help you, a sharp, tingling feeling will spread between your shoulder blades and straight down your spine. That's how you know he's there. Of course, a tingly feeling is no guarantee, but you've never been wrong; no one else gives you that feeling and you're not sure there's anyone else who could. The tingling makes a cold sweat break out over your body, it makes you close your eyes, it makes you bite your lip …

And then you turn and he's watching you, curiosity in his eyes.

It makes you swallow, and you wonder what it is he's so damn curious about. A part of you even wants to tell him to get his curiosity out of his system and do whatever it is he's thinking about. You don't, though - not because you don't have the guts, but because you know that if he did whatever it was he was thinking about when he stared at you, then he might stop staring. You're pretty sure you don't want the curiosity out of his system.

You like that he's curious. It makes it okay that you're just as curious.

You never used to be. It used to just be creepy and warm, but after a while the warmth took over everything - it controls your entire body, and you want more of it. You're curious about what more of it would feel like.

Warm skin, warm hands, warm tongues - it all sounds so hot, but it makes you shiver.

The curiosity's been getting the better of you lately, and you're surprised _he's_ lasted this long. He's been staring at you a lot longer than you've been staring back. You don't understand how it is that you're the one getting antsy while he just continues to calmly stare at you with that intense gaze.

You think you might be done. Done with the wondering, the waiting. It's been going on far too long and, now that you think about it, he's always had more patience than you. You're too impulsive to let this go on as it has been. Doing something about it is the only thing left. You're done with the wondering, the waiting.

It's 5:05pm, and you're both finished with work. The boss and older guys always finish at four on Saturdays, leaving the two of you to close up. It used to be that you'd use that time to horse around - fiddle with cars or play poker - but now you can barely be in the same room as him without getting that sharp, tingly feeling between your shoulder blades. Even when he's standing right in front of you.

As you lock the front door, your heart begins to pound in your chest, even though you have no idea what's going to happen. You've been curious for so long about what more would be like, but you've never really considered what could possibly happen if either of you went for it. You're not even sure what _it_ is.

He's closing the hood of the Caddy when you make your way out back. Staying silent, you watch him stretch, palms to the ceiling and shirt lifting up that little bit. Your mouth goes dry at the skin that shows. You've seen that skin before, so many times you've lost count. But since all this started, all this staring and warmth and wondering, you've made a point of looking away.

Not this time. You take in your fill of the two inches of tanned skin and can feel the sweat break out on the small of your own back. You hadn't been sure before, but now you know. You know that you have to know. Whatever happens is going to happen, but you have to know what that will be.

You step forward, making yourself known, and he turns to look at you. He's surprised to see you; you can see it in his eyes. Or maybe he's surprised by the look in your eyes, because you're one hundred percent sure you're now the one with the intense stare. It can't be helped; you've been thinking about the skin, hands, and tongues so damn hard and for so damn long that you're suddenly sure you know what's coming.

You step right in front of him, and he says your name, confusion ringing clear. You're glad. For once he can be confused. For once he can wonder just what the hell those looks are all about. Keeping that in mind, you lower your gaze to his boot-clad feet. Slowly, hoping like hell you make him feel the way he makes you feel, you let your eyes travel up his body.

You wonder why you've never done this before, because gosh it's a nice sight. You don't like guys, but when you look at him, you see what his ex-girlfriends must have seen. Ratty work jeans that are tight in the right places, hints of a chest that you know yourself is defined and not horrible to look at, and eyes that are looking at you with curiosity and … lust?

Lust.

Holy fucking shit.

You can't move. You're not even two feet away from him and you can't move forward or back. All you can do is think about the _lust_ and avert your gaze. But that doesn't help because it lands on his lips and you wonder just how you've managed to go all these years without tasting them.

He's still looking at you, making you feel warm and naked and tingly. It doesn't matter that he hasn't just turned up behind you, or that he's not raking his eyes over you. You know he's giving you that intense look and it makes your chest heavy, but you could stop him if you really wanted to.

But you know you don't want to.

You want anything that's about to happen. The lust can go fuck itself until you're ready to really deal with it. For now, you're going to let it happen. And it does happen. You look up, dragging your eyes away from his lips, and meet his intense stare with one of your own.

Then he kisses you. He leans over that less-than-two-foot gap and presses his lips to yours. And it's demanding in a way that stops you from pushing him away - which is, of course, your natural reaction. You might have been done, might have wanted something to happen, but you're a guy and he's a guy and he's kissing you.

And it feels good.

But when you don't respond, don't give a reaction of any kind, he begins to pull away. You don't want him to. You tell yourself that you're not entirely sure you want him kissing you, but that's a lie. Kissing you and not pulling away is what you want, and you tell him by leaning forward, going with him when he begins to pull back.

The gasp he lets out is unexpected, especially since he was the one to begin this, but you use it to your advantage. You've realized what you want, after all, and you plan on getting it. The idea of warm hands, skin, and tongues has nudged its way back into your foggy brain, and you want it all.

You become the demanding one, clamping your hand to the back of his warm neck and slipping your tongue into his mouth. He's not slow like you. He responds immediately, pressing his tongue against yours and tugging you closer with his fingers in your belt loops.

Your senses are on overload as you kiss in the middle of the oil-stained garage, and you're not sure this has ever happened before. You can feel him everywhere, his hard body that feels better than any of the curves you've had pressed against you. Soap, tobacco, and car oil invade your nose and it's entirely _him_. You can't see a thing with your eyes closed, and the only sound you can hear is your own deep, gasping breath, but the more you taste him, the more you think you can taste the chocolate bar he had for lunch.

A part of you knows you have to stop. You're just kissing, but you can feel him and you know he can feel you and you're really not sure what will happen if you continue. What started out as warm hands, skin, and tongues could become sweaty palms, tangled limbs, and slicked skin, and you're not sure if that's what you want.

Pulling back, you gasp for air. You're still pressed against him, still breathing in his scent, but you've stopped kissing and that's probably a good thing. A kiss is one thing; tangled limbs are a whole new level.

He whispers your name, and his breath against your face is intoxicating. It makes you dizzy with want and need and _lust,_ and you don't know what to do. Taking this farther is out of the question because kissing is huge enough as it is. More than kissing would be … you don't even know, but his lips are on your jaw and suddenly taking it farther doesn't seem so bad after all.

Because he feels good. You're still pressed against him, you can still _feel_ him, and his lips, tongue, and teeth are sending you into some kind of spiraling mess that is too damn good to say no to. So you say yes. It comes out as a groan and you wonder if he can feel the vibrations of your vocal cords beneath his mouth.

He pulls you closer, sucking hard on the skin of your throat, and you know that if you don't stop now, you never will. The feeling that shoots through you as your bodies touch in the exact right place makes your knees weak, and you fight to stay upright. You fight to stay in control. You fight the need to writhe against him, the need for his hands to move from your goddamn belt loops and _touch_ you.

It's like he reads your mind. That's not surprising because he knows you better than almost anyone. You still have one hand on his neck, the other hanging helplessly at your side, but he's taken the initiative now because that's what you want. He knows what you like, what you don't like, and what you fucking need. And he knows you need him to touch you.

His lips slide over yours again as his fingers slither up above your waistband and onto the skin above your low-riding jeans. All your muscles clench at his touch on your stomach, and you begin to shake. It feels good. So good you think you might just die.

But then his fingers slide down. Just that little bit beneath your waistband for him to get a grip on the button of your jeans and pop it open. It makes your control come back, it makes the fog leave your brain, and it gets rid of the still tingling feeling between your shoulder blades. Because if he touches you - touches you there - you'll never be able to stop.

And you need to stop.

You're still curious, still wondering, but you're not stupid. Everything about him is pure sex, and you want it, but you're not stupid enough to go for it. You're a guy and he's a guy and it can only end badly.

It can only end badly.

You grip his wrists in your hands, stopping him from where he's so intent to go. But when he pulls away from your mouth, his body still pressed against yours, you're almost willing to let him continue. You can see he wants to touch you, wants to please you, and fucking hell, it takes everything you have not to let him.

But he understands. Of course he understands - he knows you better than anyone. You let go of his wrists and he drops his hands to his side. He's disappointed - he isn't even trying to hide it - but then he smirks at you and you know he's not pissed. He understands.

You step back, detaching yourself from the currents of electricity that were surging through your still touching bodies, and you think it might be the hardest thing you've ever done. But you do it, because you have to.

Matching his smirk with a grin, you clap him on the shoulder, trying to ignore just how hot his skin is beneath his shirt - trying to make things seem normal. You turn away quickly - before you do something even stupider than what you've already done - and head out of the garage.

You can feel his gaze on you the whole way, and a sharp, tingling feeling makes its way between your shoulder blades and straight down your spine.

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**A/N 2: **A huge thanks to the other half of this pen name for her patience, grammar skills, and general awesomeness.


End file.
